Varnakith

A towering figure of slate-grey skin marked with intricate geometric patterns that shift in the firelight. Varnakith's frame is all corded muscle and broad shoulders, a Goliath built for strength, yet his hands move with surprising grace when he draws his lute. His eyes hold an unusual warmth for one of his kind—darker than storm clouds, but touched with something keen and measured. He wears his hair long and braided, woven through with simple copper rings that catch the light when he turns his head. His clothing favors practicality: well-worn leather armor over sturdy wool, though a fine cloak drapes his shoulders—the kind that suggests he was once welcomed in better halls. There is a scar along his left temple, pale against his dark skin, that speaks of old struggles. When he speaks, his deep voice carries a cadence that commands attention, the timbre of someone accustomed to being heard. Despite his intimidating size, there is nothing harsh about his bearing; rather, he carries himself as one who has learned that strength need not announce itself.